


Shibari

by Gladia_Delmarre



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bondage, Love, M/M, Romance, Rope Bondage, Sex, Shibari, Slow Burn, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22334020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gladia_Delmarre/pseuds/Gladia_Delmarre
Summary: Being suspended almost feels like flying.It doesn't matter that it is ropes that support him. The same ones that have been pulled and tightened on his flesh, biting into him and leaving marks.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 27
Collections: The Good Omens Library





	Shibari

Being suspended almost feels like flying.

It doesn't matter that it is ropes that support him. The same ones that have been pulled and tightened on his flesh, biting into him and leaving marks.  
The same ropes above him have been elegantly shaped to represent skinny wings, almost a skeleton. White tense bones, bare, pale in the penumbra.

Crowley no longer has pure white wings, they are made of darkness now.

Aziraphale loves them.

He pushes his fingers into them when they make love and Crowley can't keep them closed. Aziraphale touches the feathery, most tender part, clings to the muscular base near the shoulder blades, or runs his fingers between the longest feathers when Crowley encloses him in the darkness of their embrace.

Now he keeps them forced under the skin.  
The shoulder blades almost touch, the shoulders stretched back, the tightly knotted arms fall back along the concave crease of the backbone.

Two black bands tighten the chest, slightly stretching the skin. He breathes slowly, rhythmically exposing his ribs.  
His beautiful mouth is parted in a pained crease, as well as her slightly arched eyebrows. Under closed eyelids, the eyes remain alert, mobile.

A long coppery wave falls forward, covering one cheek and going lower, brushing against the mahogany floor of the library. The hair is damp, a bit sweaty. They leave the back of the neck exposed, and the curved neck shows tiny hollows, where the vertebrae spread.

The library is immersed in the half-light, and the central, circular well is adorned with Crowley's living sculpture, forced by strings that just make him sway, as if softly driven by the wind. There is silence. The light illuminates him mercilessly, cutting stark shadows on the thin body, bent in an unnatural curve.

Aziraphale has become good at this.

He’s read a lot, experimented more.

Elegant knots adorn his thighs, supporting the tender groove of the groin, spreading his legs and exposing his sex rigid and tense, excited and quivering. Untouched. Aziraphale does not touch him, he only looks at him speaking softly, caressing him with the sound of his voice.

He is so vulnerable right now.

His heart and his body are offered to Aziraphale in their entirety.


End file.
